In the Kitchen
by The Cheshire Riddler
Summary: In an attempt to get space from his mother, Freddie signs up for a summer cooking class. It ends up being more than anyone expected it to be; especially to Freddie, who is determined to excel. Luckily, he's got a dedicated food tester. Seddie.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **So sorry, guys, about the long absence. School is back, so updates will be slow. I really like this plot line though, so I'll try to stick with it. Plus there's maybe a few one-shots I'll post later on. Again, sorry in advance for the slow pace. (Side note: the iCarly gang are all going through the summer before their junior year age-wise.)

**Warnings: **There shouldn't be anything too graphic in here, language or otherwise; lots of cooking and eating though.

* * *

In the Kitchen

* * *

_Prologue_

_

* * *

  
_

It'd been Freddie's mom's fault, really.

Marissa Benson was always encouraging her little boy, her little Fredward, to go out and try new things. Most of the time, however, she tagged along and all of the time the new things she suggested were completely sane—and therefore utterly boring. It didn't help that whenever a chance to do something interesting came along, like cutting up a shirt in tie-dye class, his mom protested, saying scissors were too dangerous. The blonde haired girl Freddie's age, the only cute girl in the class, had been among those who had laughed at Freddie for his mom's comment. Freddie didn't want to hurt his mother's feelings though, so he went to the mom-son tennis classes, the pottery lessons, the book clubs, the sock puppet groups, and everything else.

Freddie had sucked in his male pride on more than one occasion for his mom. He knew she had some issues, especially when it came to his dad, so Freddie tiptoed around her most of the time. He loved his mom and she loved him. She just had a really clingy, really strict, really embarrassing way of showing it.

Plus his mom was kind of insane—or at least she acted like it, the majority of the time—and Freddie knew that better than anyone. He also knew it was best if you didn't get her riled up about something; because than she went beyond insane. Sometimes Freddie wondered how she hadn't been carted away to the nuthouse yet, especially after that ice cream, duck, purple marker, redheaded twins, sandbox, and glitter incident. Everyone had walked away from that scarred for life, except for Freddie's mom, who had reverted back to normal, if you could call her behavior normal, instantly after the incident, pretending it had never happened. Freddie never wanted to see his mom like that again, so he never brought home or ate Rocky Road ice cream in her sight. He tried to keep all glitter out of the house. There were just some things that should never happen twice, or even once.

But the point of this all was that Freddie wanted a little independence. He wanted a little _space_, to breathe, to grow, to come into his own. Ever since he had befriended Sam and Carly, his mom had slowly been giving him some leeway. She had grudgingly accepted his fencing lessons, him going out to see violent movies (Sam's favorite type were gore, surprise), and his commitment to the web show. But Mrs. Benson had only one speed. And since she couldn't fit herself into every aspect of Freddie's day, she tried to compensate by suffocating him when they had time together. Freddie, quite frankly, was absolutely sick of the mother-son activities, clubs, and events they attended. He was always the oldest kid there and ended up babysitting some brat who threw stuff at him.

It took one long book club meeting, in which the moms gossiped about the author's affair with some old movie star; while Freddie sat in the other room, watching screaming children chase each other around, brandishing Sharpies and pretzels and Fun-Dough, that Freddie finally decided he had had enough. It didn't help that it had taken a week for the blue Fun-Dough to eventually get out of his hair. Freddie stalled, making up legitimate excuses to avoid going to further meetings and clubs with his mom. It seemed a godsend when her job picked up, making her too busy to go as well. Freddie enjoyed the bit of freedom his mom's busy two weeks offered. It was just before summer vacation, and Freddie's classes were letting up. With his free time Freddie was free to hang out longer at the Shay's, edit some stuff for iCarly, and spend time online talking to the pretty girl in his Spanish class.

It was a blissful two weeks, which ended with school letting out and his mom's job slowing down.

Freddie knew he had to take a stand, before his mom started filling his summer up with "safe, approved" things to do and mother-son time. He knew from past years that the latter would gobble up the majority of his summer. So Freddie had prepared to confront his mom about it. He had practiced his speech to Carly and Sam, had it approved by Spencer, the resident authority figure, and had even practiced using a mirror, to make sure his expression was mature and serious. If there was one thing his mom respected, it was being presented a case clearly, logically, and somberly. Freddie couldn't crack a joke in the middle or mumble, because then his mom wouldn't take him seriously.

And Freddie needed her to take him seriously; otherwise his summer was going to suck. Freddie wasn't going to spend the summer before his junior year scrapbooking with old women and eight year olds who glued smiley faces to his butt, like last year. Freddie was going to man up; he was going to tell his mom he required space and wanted to spend his summer however he pleased.

There his mom was, right in front of him, looking at him expectantly. Freddie had already lead into his statement, and was about to go in for the kill. Then, suddenly, he froze. His mind was barraged by images of his mom yelling, angry, or sobbing, stricken. Freddie didn't want to hurt his mom, however misguided her idea of raising a proper teenage boy was; so he quickly formulated and improvised a Plan B.

His eyes darted around the kitchen, landing on the pile of mail. It was mostly brochures, from past summer camps and classes Freddie had taken, and from some new ones. Freddie grabbed one at random, shoving it in his mom's direction. He scanned the front of it while his mom held it up, trying to sound convincing. "Mom, I want to take cooking classes." Freddie inwardly winced, knowing that Sam was going to really give it to him later when she found out. 'Cooking' didn't scream 'masculine', after all. Freddie cleared his throat, heart beating fast. "I don't want to spend this summer scrapbooking or in a book club. I just want to cook and relax."

He waited anxiously, watching his mom. She seemed to read every word ten times before moving on to the next; it took her what felt like an hour to Freddie to observe the brochure. Finally, after an eternity, Mrs. Benson looked up at her son, her gaze piercing. Freddie swallowed nervously; sometimes he could read his mom, predict what was coming.

But she still had a few tricks up her sleeves, and this was one unreadable look Freddie couldn't decipher for the life of him. He tried to look serious about this, and attempted to momentarily forget he was asking to take cooking classes. What he was really asking for, underneath it all, was space. He only had two more years with him mom, anyway. She needed to start letting go, letting and trusting Freddie to do more things on his own.

"Okay," she said calmly.

Freddie blinked his eyes rapidly, floored. He had hoped, but he hadn't expected to get his way so easily. He had been prepared for something—maybe a shouting match or his mom to get all teary eyed. But his mom was shrugging, flipping back through the brochure idly. She looked up at him and smiled sincerely, and maybe there was a sad edge to it. But she didn't seem torn up or furious about it.

"Fredward," his mom said, stepping forward and placing her hands on his shoulders. She had to slightly look up, as Freddie was growing taller. "I understand. If cooking is something you want to do, fine. If you wanted to spend your summer lazing about, doing nothing, I would be fine." She leaned in and hugged him, the familiar gesture comforting to both of them. "You're growing up, as much as I don't like it. I can't stop it, and I won't try. You do what you want."

Freddie gazed dumbly over his mom's shoulder, thunderstruck. His mom probably knew him better than anyone else in the world; but Freddie had always assumed she was deliberately playing dumb to his need for space, for his own time. He was now touched and delighted that his mom was giving in so easily, and admitting that she knew he was growing up. Freddie hugged her tighter, wondering how his mom had gotten so much smaller, so much older. He realized that it was him, that he was just bigger and older, too. Things had to change.

Mrs. Benson drew back to beam at Freddie. "So I'll go call this class, and we'll get you all set up," she chirped happily, obviously pleased that Freddie wasn't going to throw his whole summer away 'doing nothing'. She was willing to give Freddie leverage, but she didn't have to be pleased about it; plus Mrs. Benson hated laziness almost more than she detested germs. "I think you'll like cooking, Freddie. There's food involved!" She laughed and scampered away, presumably to get her phone and register him for the class.

Freddie stood there, frozen, as it dawned on him that if he had stuck to Plan A, he would have had the whole summer free. But since he had chickened out and taken Plan B, he would now be taking cooking classes; Freddie didn't even know how much of his summer the classes would consume, since he hadn't even read the brochure. He'd just glanced at the title while handing it over to his mom. Freddie groaned, running a hand through his hair, wondering why these kinds of things always happened to him.

And then, really, _really_ belatedly, Freddie realized that he had no idea how to cook.


	2. In Which There are Many Pancakes

**Author's Note: **I'm going to try to update twice a week; school's busy, but I really like this plot. Thank you for the reviews!

* * *

_In Which There Are Many Pancakes _

* * *

Freddie had barely walked into the lobby before he was besieged. They had, obviously, been waiting for him. Freddie had time for this brief thought, and then he was ambushed.

"Hey, Freddie! Long time, no see, huh?"

"Freddork, I almost forgot how hideous your face is."

They appeared out of nowhere, one a blur of blue and the other a blur of long blonde hair. Both girls were perky, since they had probably slept in. It was the second day of summer. Freddie hadn't seen them since school had let out, because his mom had monopolized his first night and day of freedom, claiming it was the one day all summer she'd take. Freddie hadn't minded. He and his mom had gone to a nice, quiet restaurant and had a good dinner. Now Freddie smiled at his friends, happy they had been waiting in the lobby for him. Lewbert probably hadn't been very friendly to them for it; well, he'd probably been even less friendly then normal.

Carly hopped in front of him, smiling happily. Sam stood off of Carly's shoulders, chopping on gum and raising her eyebrows at Freddie expectantly. Freddie smiled back at them uncertainly, wondering why they were looking at him like that. Then he remembered: waking up at six, during the summer, to attend a cooking class that went from seven to noon. Freddie's good mood vanished as he recalled how the class had gone. He had been trying not to think of it, and had been succeeding, until Sam and Carly ruined it.

Scowling, Freddie slipped between his two best friends and stomped over the elevator. His black mood practically hung over his head as Freddie crossed his arms across his chest moodily. A black messenger bag hung over his shoulder, light as it was mostly empty. Freddie had gone to class, not knowing what to expect; what he had discovered was nothing like Freddie's idea of a cooking class at all.

The teacher, the famous Chef Barbara Bay, seemed flighty and unconcerned with what went on in the kitchen. She didn't use timers or measuring cup or table spoons, though she had told the class straight off she didn't mind if they started out using such crutches. Freddie didn't know how he was going to succeed in this class. Freddie didn't have a talent for cooking, as he'd never really done it before; but before the class he would've said he was at least decent.

But Chef Barbara had had them mix pancake batter from scratch. Everyone else in the class had done fairly well, because of past experience—except for Freddie. He'd only ever watched his mom make pancakes, and those were whole-grain or wheat-germ or something disgustingly healthy. Apparently, there was a big difference between cooking Mrs. Benson's pancakes and Chef Barbara's. Freddie had poured too much flour in, and then he didn't smooth the batter enough. Then when it came time to actually cook the pancakes, Freddie flipped one onto the counter of his workstation. He had come close to finished only one, and when he had scooped it off of the frying pan, he had accidentally flipped that one over his head. It landed on top of Chef Barbara's white chef hat. Eventually, at the end of class, Chef Barbara stood at Freddie's workstation and narrated what he was supposed to be doing.

Freddie was mortified and ashamed. Making pancakes had always seemed such an easy thing to do to him; plus, Freddie was used to excelling: schoolwork, tech stuff, and fencing. He was accustomed to having a head start or talent for whatever he was focusing on. As Chef Barbara had informed him, cheerfully, several times, "Cooking has to be learned." Freddie didn't want to learn how to cook. He couldn't cook. He didn't see how cooking would help him later on in life; in college he planned to survive off of take-out and frozen dinners, like every other student, and after he would just deal. Freddie wasn't a chauvinist, but he had assumed his wife would do the cooking. Freddie had never planned on learning to cook himself.

Sam and Carly seemed to realize how black of a mood Freddie was in, however, because they left him alone on the elevator ride up to Carly's apartment. Freddie refused to look at them and hurried off of the elevator. He paused, wondering if he should just go home or to the Shay's. Carly, Sam, and he had planned on spending the whole summer together, after all. But Freddie didn't feel like he would be very good company. Then again, Freddie needed to rant. Plus, he wasn't going to do this cooking homework at home; his mom would come home and insist on monitoring his use of her kitchen. So he turned around and faced a wary Carly and bemused Sam.

He forced a smile onto his face, nodding towards the door to Carly's apartment. "Shall we?" he asked, trying to sound more upbeat. He didn't want to be such a downer, especially if this class was going to last for a few more weeks.

"We shall," Carly shot back, grinning, but she couldn't hide the relief on her face that Freddie wasn't about to go off and mope around. She unlocked the door and they trailed into the apartment. Spencer's current masterpiece, the bust of some Egyptian pharaoh made out of candy wrappers and gum, sat on a high, skinny table in the center of the room. Freddie gave it wide berth as he passed it to take a seat, swinging his messenger bag up onto the island countertop before him. Sam trotted past him, predictably, to the fridge. She pulled out a carton of orange juice, considered the date on it, and chugged the remains.

Freddie watched her, a mildly disgusted expression on his face. He was used to Sam now, but still. "Sam, I know that orange juice was three days past expiration," he stated. Then Freddie looked at Sam, who was ignoring him, now-empty carton abandoned near the sink. She was rummaging through the fridge, searching for further goodies. Freddie sighed, knowing a lost cause when he saw it. He looked over at Carly, who was sitting at the kitchen table, surfing the internet on Spencer's new Pear laptop. "Anything interesting?" he asked, pulling a pack of gum out of his messenger bag.

Carly shook her head, eyes on the screen. "Well, besides a view from Chile who sent us a recipe to make pink chili," she joked, smiling, "there's nothing new." Carly straightened the collar of her blue polo, and then smoothed her hand over her straight ponytail. "There's a boost in viewers, a video saying hello from Lucas, and Neville bashing last week's webcast."

Sam mumbled something that came out sounding like "hushingkittenbushingfluffawuffle?" because her mouth was full of pretzels, grapes, popcorn, and chocolate-covered almonds. Freddie glanced over at Sam while she spoke and quickly looked away, repulsed. Sam spoke with her mouth full and gaping.

Carly stared at Sam, sadly used to such things, and said pointedly, "What was that Sam? I couldn't understand you past all the _see-food _in your mouth."

Sam chewed for a minute, swallowed big, and then repeated, "I said, what's the turd bashing? That camel-conga was funny stuff." She eyed Freddie slyly and added, smirking, "Not to mention the close up of Freddie's nose hair."

He rolled his eyes. "That wasn't funny," he deadpanned, hand going up to cover the nose in question. "Besides, I don't have that much hair in my nose."

"Defensive much?" Carly asked, but her grin and raised eyebrows showing she was kidding.

Sam, however, snorted. "It's more hair than you've got on your chest, that's for sure," she stated, pulling a Tupperware box out of the fridge.

Freddie glared at her, but Sam was too busy prying the lid off of the Tupperware box to notice.

"Anyway, what are we doing this week for the show?" Carly inquired, fingers tapping the keyboard of the laptop furiously as she wrote something. She glanced up at Freddie, who was chewing on a piece of his gum, staring into space, and Sam, who was still struggling with the lid. Carly shook her head, chuckling slightly. "I think we should go with the air freshener one. We can do more with it then the seashell painting thing," Carly mused, mostly to herself.

"We could throw the burrito one at the end of the air freshener," Sam suggested suddenly, voice muffled as she tried to remove the lid with her teeth. She dropped it onto the table, glaring at it, as she added: "The cooking of the burrito would be cool. Domestic-ish, too."

Freddie frowned, "No cooking."

Sam paused in her quest, the knife she was trying to wedge underneath the lid held limp in her hand, as she and Carly exchanged meaningful glances. Freddie hated it when they did that. After years of friendship, the girls had practically made their own language, one whose words were written in minute gestures and expressions. It was a language that Freddie didn't and couldn't understand. It frustrated him, especially when he knew they were secretly talking about him. And Freddie knew this time they were talking about him; the three had become such good friends that they rarely kept things from each other. Sam and Carly gossiped and talked freely in front Freddie, except for when it had to do with him.

"Freddie," Carly started awkwardly, and Freddie's suspicions were confirmed by her tone. Carly and Sam had been communicating about him.

He sighed heavily, holding a hand up to stop whatever sympathetic thing Carly was about to say. He appreciated it, but if Carly sprouted off about how it wasn't his fault, he'd start to feel guilty. The class, as Freddie had finally gotten around to reading the brochure yesterday, was quite prestigious and fairly expensive. There was quite a complex system of selecting people to be eligible. Freddie still wasn't sure how he had gotten in; and his class was diverse, people of all different ages, social standings, and statuses.

"I'm not mad about having to do the cooking thing," he admitted, staring at the counter of the island. "I'm mad because I can't cook."

There was a pause.

Then: "Oh! So there's something the amazing Fredward _can't _do?" Sam gasped, mock-horrified. "Say it ain't so." She cracked up, shaking her head as she returned to trying to open the Tupperware.

"Don't listen to Sam," Carly said comfortingly, standing up and walking over to Freddie. She smiled at him consolingly, patting him on the back. "I mean, you can't be good at everything," she reasoned, and then her smile turned sly, "unless you're Sam, of course."

Freddie grinned at that.

Sam grunted. "I'll pretend that wasn't sarcastic," she told them loftily, resorting to banging the Tupperware container against the table repeatedly.

Freddie and Carly watched Sam bang the Tupperware a few more times before Freddie rolled his eyes and hopped off of the stool; he strode over to Sam and easily ripped the lid off of the container, revealing the fatty cakes within. He held out the container and lid to Sam, raising his eyebrows, daring her to say something. Sam met his eyes and opened her mouth to say something. Freddie raised his chin slightly, challenging.

He was getting braver, not so intimidated by Sam now. It helped he was a few inches taller than her now, and still growing. Sam's eyes stared into his for a few long moments, at a stand-off, until she grabbed the lid and container. She muttered "thanks, Fredweird" under her breath. Freddie was the bigger person and pretended not to hear her.

Freddie took a deep breath and explained his day to them; Carly listened attentively, and so did Sam, though she interrupted constantly. By the time Freddie had finished, Carly was smiling a little and Sam was flat out cracking up. They both didn't think it was that big of deal. Freddie sulked, mad they weren't taking his side and seeing how horrible cooking class was going to be. Finally, Carly said, "Freddie, it's just cooking. Look, you have homework? Let us help." While Sam spluttered at being volunteered to _help _Freddie—and with _homework_, no matter if it was cooking—Freddie perked up.

Carly was right, he thought later, watching Sam pour the batter into the frying pan. It was just cooking. Freddie didn't even think there was a grading system, and even if he did get graded, it wasn't going on his permanent record. So Freddie decided he would take it easy, Sam's motto, and he grinned brightly, feeling better than he had ever since his mom had signed him up for the class.

Even when Sam showed off her own pancake, shaped after a rude hand gesture, Freddie's smile didn't diminish. He just maturely slapped the lid shut on the Tupperware container and continued eating his own misshapen, Freddie-made pancake, pointedly ignoring Carly's laughter.


	3. In Which There are Many Muffins

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the wait! Next update in maybe five days.

* * *

_In Which There are Many Muffins _

* * *

Sam looked around the Shay's apartment blearily, sipping at the warm cup of coffee she had swiped from a half-asleep Carly.

It was eleven in the morning, just before noon, and Sam hazily recalled what had happened before she went to bed. Last night, Sam and Carly had helped Freddie make pancakes; they were almost done when Freddie realized he had to document his homework with pictures. They'd had to start a whole new batch just so Freddie could capture the process and then write down what "he" had done. Sam and Carly, really just Sam, had been annoyed. Carly had wanted to cheer Freddie up, so she hadn't minded. After Sam realized it meant more food, she hadn't minded much either. Now Sam's stomach grumbled and she wished they had leftovers from last night; but she had consumed them all as a midnight snack.

She sipped her coffee and looked around. She felt like something was missing, and there was: Fredward. Right now, he was taking day two of his cooking class. Sam felt smug that she'd gotten a few more hours of sleep than Freddie did, even if he didn't normally sleep half the day away like a regular teenager. Fredward had always been a little off, Sam knew, but to get up early when he didn't have to? Madness if there ever was and it proved just how strange Freddie was. Sam knew there was a metaphor there Carly would make, something about a pot calling a kettle fat or blue or something.

It was too early to think coherently, though.

Sam sipped some more coffee, grimacing at the strong taste. Carly hadn't added sugar or cream to it; she hadn't even noticed Sam had stolen it. Carly was standing next to the island in the kitchen, staring down intensely at a bowl of cereal.

"Carls?" Sam asked slowly, wondering if Carly was going to fall asleep right then and there—which would be kind of awesome, since Carly's head would then fall into the cereal bowl, and that sort of thing usually just happened in movies. "You okay?"

Carly looked up at Sam, blinking rapidly as if she'd forgotten Sam was even there. Then Carly lifted up the bowl of cereal and replied, "There's something missing." The grave look on Carly's sleepy face told Sam her friend was serious.

Trying not to laugh, really trying, Sam said somberly, "Did you add the milk?"

Carly's mouth dropped open and she blinked once, slowly.

Then she shuffled over to the fridge to get the milk.

Sam quietly cracked up from her spot at the kitchen table.

Minutes later Sam had to remind Carly that cereal was best eaten with a spoon, not a fork. Sam was being quite charitable that morning, as she was in an unusually good mood for such an early hour. Sam didn't wake up before twelve on weekends and during the summer if she had to, but she didn't feel like going to bed today. Sam was strangely awake and excited. She blamed it on the pancakes they had made last night. Pancakes always made Sam excited, last night's especially because she had snuck little pieces of ham into hers.

But that wasn't it. Sam scowled, her good mood dropping slightly, and took a huge gulp of the hot coffee. She instantly started spluttering, her throat burning as it made contact with the scalding coffee. Sam rushed over to the sink and turned the faucet on, shoving her mouth underneath the spout. Cups were for the cultured and patient. Sam only used utensils because Carly wouldn't make brownies for her if she didn't; plus Sam got funny looks for using her hands, and then she had to go beat those people up, and by the time she returned her food was cold.

It was easier all around to just use a fork in public and private, since her hands got dirty when she didn't, and Spencer hadn't appreciated Sam getting apple sauce everywhere that one time.

"Hola, ladies," Spencer announced, gliding into the kitchen. He was wearing rollerblades and a neon green shirt with bright orange shorts. By now, Sam had learned not to ask. It wasn't worth it, in the long run, and it was safer to be blissfully ignorant. "How are the sister and best friend this fine morning?" he asked, reaching around a zombie-like Carly, who was mechanically taking bites of cereal, to grab a banana.

Sam grunted to sum up her mood, and then added for Carly, "I'm afraid Carls has gone into comatose. Only cheesy early morning cartoons can wake her up." Sam drained the rest of her coffee as Spencer chuckled, and then set her sights on the plate of muffins that she'd just noticed sitting on the counter.

Spencer, munching on his banana, noticed Sam eyeing the muffins. He grinned and explained, "Freddie stopped by earlier. Apparently he made a mistake—his classes aren't from seven to noon." Spencer scratched his head, absently mindedly using his banana to do so. Sam didn't have to heart to tell Spencer he had banana mush in his hair; she walked passed him and snatched a muffin, shoving half of it into her mouth greedily. It was cinnamon-raisin or something, and tasted divine. "I think they're like seven to ten now?" Spencer guessed, shrugging and eating more of his banana. "Something like that."

Sam scrunched her face up, her sleepy brain starting to kick into gear. She was confused and took another bite of muffin. "So _Freddie _made these?" she asked in disbelief with her mouth full, staring down at what was left of the muffin in her hand. "But…they're good."

"I know, right? I've had three," Spencer admitted guiltily, finishing off his banana. "But Freddie said today went better for him. I ate one in front of him and told him they were good, but he wouldn't believe me." Spencer tossed the banana peel in the trash. "He wouldn't eat one, either. Said they'd tried each others in class and he was stuffed."

Sam snorted, very unladylike, cramming the rest of the muffin into her mouth. She found it hard to believe a growing boy could turn down food. And Freddie was growing, as much as Sam hated to admit it. All that fencing had been good to him, too. Sam shoved those thoughts away, though, as she reached for another muffin. Fredward was Fredward, and thus would always be the geeky tech guy who lived next to Carly—so Sam told herself, and she almost believed it.

"Hey, I gotta run to the store to pick up some stuff," Spencer said, pocketing his keys and phone. "My sculpture needs some more supplies."

Sam didn't ask what supplies he needed and Spencer didn't elaborate. As he gained more notoriety, more and more people began requesting art from him. Some were very wealthy, very quirky people, who commissioned very strange things made out of extremely weird things. Sam and Carly had asked once, out of curiosity, and Spencer had told them.

Carly and Sam had vowed never to ask again after that.

Spencer checked his watch and nodded to himself. "Be back in a few!" He grabbed a muffin for the road, waved, and closed the door to the apartment lightly behind him.

Carly shoveled the last bit of cereal into her mouth and then sniffed the air. "Muffin?" she asked, looking around wildly. She hadn't even noticed Spencer had come and gone. Carly jumped up, running over to where Sam stood by the muffin plate, and grabbed the biggest one. She glared at Sam and retreated across the kitchen, holding her muffin protectively. "_My _muffin," she warned Sam, taking a huge bite of it.

"Your muffin," Sam agreed, reaching over to the plate for her third muffin. Carly was adorable in the morning, primitive and almost cavewoman-like. Without her coffee, which Sam had drunken, Carly took about an hour to wake up. Sam was willing to bet the sugar from the muffin would jolt Carly awake, anyway.

Sure enough, a few minutes and muffins later, Carly was awake enough for small conversation. She and Sam perched, sitting up on the counter of the island, working away at the few muffins left. They talked idly, swapping what summer gossip had already occurred and talking about the movies premiering soon; regular talk, that eventually turned to a familiar topic.

"Who made these muffins?" Carly asked after a lull in the conversation. She held half of the last muffin in one hand and a glass of milk in the other.

"Our darling Fredward," Sam drawled, licking her fingers clean of any stray crumbs.

Carly shook her head in awe. "What? But his pancakes last night were…" Carly trailed off and grimaced. There was a reason she had offered to take over making most of the pancakes.

Sam grimaced, remembering the one bit of Freddie's pancake she'd had. Sam ate all food, really; but Freddie's pancake hadn't even tasted edible. Sam would know.

"Horrible?" Sam offered dryly.

Carly hesitated, not wanting to sound offensive, but finally agreed, "Worse than horrible. I don't know how he ate a whole one. The bite I took was more than enough."

Sam shrugged, rummaging through the fridge once again to make doubly sure she hadn't passed over anything good. She let out a cry of triumph, grabbing a pudding cup that had cleverly been hidden behind healthy fruit juice. Sam ripped it open and stuck a finger in, turning around and shutting the fridge with her hip.

Carly looked at her, rolling her eyes.

"What?" Sam asked. Her voice was muffled as her mouth was full of finger and pudding.

"Nothing," Carly answered, chuckling despite herself. She was really too used to Sam's antics by now to find them offensive.

They sat there for a moment in silence, before they both stood up and walked into the den. They sat down on the couch, Sam flipping the TV on. Carly quickly claimed the remote from Sam, who had a horrible time deciding what she wanted to watch. Sam thought flicking from show to show to show was acceptable when you wanted to watch them all; Carly thought that was why they had invented TiVo. Carly settled on a mellow, comedic show about a pair of fraternal twins going through high school trying not to let anyone know they were related. It made Carly and Sam laugh all every few minutes and gave them a few new ideas for their next webcast; the credits were rolling just as noon rolled in.

Carly finally said what was bothering them both. "Where is Freddie?" she asked nervously, checking her cell phone's clock. "He had to be home, to drop off the muffins. So where'd he go?"

Sam shrugged, unpeeling a banana. "Where's Spencer, too?" she countered before taking a huge bite.

Carly bite her lip. "We should call them both," she suggested, tugging on the end of her ponytail anxiously. "Just to make sure they're okay."

Sam shot her a look. "They're big boys, Carls. They are capable of taking care of themselves—wait, no. Never mind. This is Freddork we're talking about," Sam snickered.

Carly smiled but didn't laugh; she was clearly still concerned.

"Alright, gimme the phone," Sam sighed heavily, shifting on the couch, acting like Carly was asking her to run a triathlon on an empty stomach. "I'll call them and see what's up. Otherwise you'll be no fun till we find out."

Carly handed over her phone and Sam quickly dialed in Freddie's number. She didn't have it memorized; well, she did, but it didn't mean anything. She had just been really, really bored the one math class she had attended one week, so she had been fooling around with her phone. Sam held the ringing phone up to her ear and waiting, tapping her fingers against the side of the couch impatiently.

Now Sam was getting curious. What was keeping Freddork? He usually was pretty good about checking in with them. They all were best friends, and best friends kept in touch.

"—hello?" a very female, very not-Freddie's voice answered.

Sam threw Carly's cell phone across the room in shock, her eyes growing huge; the half-eaten banana, forgotten in her other hand, turned to mush as Sam unconciously clenched her fists.


	4. In Which There is a Stolen Smoothie

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the long space between updates. Life got me. Thank you for the reviews and being so patient!

* * *

_In Which There is a Stolen Smoothie  
_

* * *

Quinn Pensky walked back into the spacious kitchen, shrugging. "Hey, I answered your phone," she announced, setting the phone onto the edge of the kitchen island. "I think it was a prank call. There was silence and then a big crash."

Freddie grinned, rolling his eyes. "It probably was a prank call. My friend Sam thinks it's funny to hand out my number to strangers and twelve year old girls," he admitted.

Quinn laughed, her nose wrinkling cutely with the motion. "Some friend," she said approvingly. "I'll have to try that some time." She walked over to the cabinets and began to pull out more supplies. "Okay, so let's get these cupcakes going. You got the batter ready?"

"Yep, good to go," Freddie held up the bowl he was mixing with a spoon.

It was the reason he couldn't answer his phone. Quinn had been adamant Freddie stir, because she couldn't risk getting too close to raw eggs or something. Quinn had said something like that, but with bigger, more complicated words that even Freddie had trouble understanding. Quinn talked like that a lot. Freddie didn't dare stop her, as she constantly told him what a relief it was to talk to someone who didn't ask her the definition of every other word she used. Freddie was smart, but Quinn had a few years on him. She was farther ahead but Freddie still enjoyed talking to her. The AV club guys got tech stuff, but they weren't on the same level as Freddie. Quinn was a few levels above Freddie, comfortably close enough for them to converse about different programs and wiring and models.

And truth be told, Freddie didn't really know how he had ended up at Quinn's apartment.

He might have mentioned during class how badly he was at cooking—okay, maybe Freddie had sunk into a deep, dark despair and announced to the whole class that he would never understand cooking, _ever_—and Quinn had taken pity on him. She had offered to teach him. Freddie had enthusiastically accepted, because he appreciated it and he generally liked Quinn.

Quinn was the only other person in his cooking class close to his age; she was in college, with no real grade designation. She should've already graduated from CIT, but she was taking half of her classes there and then some other courses at MIT. Her schedule was chaotic enough that no one really tried to figure out if she was at sophomore or senior status. She was old enough to be freshmen, anyway. Quinn was crazy smart, something that had instantly formed a bond between her and Freddie in the two cooking classes they'd had. She was quirky, funny, and had such a scientific mindset that watching her bake was hilarious. Quinn measured things about exactly, fooling around with the flour until she had two cups to the last speck. It was something Freddie saw the sense in, but he himself was too lazy to actually do. Quinn was precise or insane enough that she actually did it.

"I think we need a beater," Quinn murmured, searching through the vast number of cabinets. "The machine thing, to whip the batter so it gets fluffy…hmm…"

Freddie looked over as Quinn bent down to open a bottom cabinet. He hurriedly looked away, cheeks flushing slightly. That was another thing: Quinn was wickedly smart and very, very attractive. Freddie had at first wondered why a hot college chick was taking a cooking class. Then Quinn had explained it was to help her chemistry skills, because she was interning on weekends at some professional, prestigious lab. Freddie had immediately understood that Quinn wasn't your average hot college girl; right after that Freddie had realized that he liked Quinn's type of college girl even more because, really? Hot, smart, and endearingly quirky? They didn't have any girls like Quinn at Freddie's high school. Sorority girls didn't even come close (though Freddie wasn't sure if Quinn was in a sorority or not, come to think of it). Freddie was fairly sure there was no other girl like Quinn in the world.

That was probably a good thing, though.

She jumped up, brandishing a spatula and pointing it at him, smiling widely. "Alright, Freddie, I'll mix the batter now." She took the bowl from him and brought it over to her side of the countertop, near the sink. "While I mix with the beater, you tell me about your girl."

Freddie, who had been sipping unsuspectingly from a water glass, choked. He sputtered and gaped at Quinn before he regained himself enough to say, "What?"

"Your girl," Quinn repeated patiently. "I mean, you're cute, you're nice, and you're smart. Plus you're learning to cook—domestic is hot." She grinned at him teasingly as she plugged a machine they used in class and that Freddie should remember the name of into an outlet. "And I see the dreamy expression you have on your face in class. That's a major clue."

Freddie shook his head, grinning. "That just me dreaming about being somewhere else," he argued. "And thanks, but there's no girl at the moment."

Quinn raised an eye brow, the machine whirring to life as she mixed the batter. "Oh, really?" she said, talking louder to be heard over the mixer. "There _is _a girl. I'll bet that you're thinking her as 'just a friend' right now then. Who are your best friends?"

Freddie chugged the rest of his water to avoid answering for a minute. But Quinn waited patiently and Freddie eventually had to answer. "They're both girls," he admitted reluctantly, "Carly Shay and Sam Puckett." Freddie tried to say the names neutrally, so Quinn wouldn't have any emotions to dissect. She was surprisingly good at reading people.

"Carly and Sam, hmm?" Quinn smiled at him as she shut the mixer off and unplugged it. "I've seen your web show," she said casually, not making a huge deal out of it, which Freddie was thankful for. He got embarrassed when people freaked out and treated him like a celebrity. "It's funny stuff."

Freddie grinned proudly, "Thanks."

"But the tension! Even my llama could see it. I'm guessing Sam is the blonde?"

Freddie's face fell. "You think—me? And _Sam_?"

Things went downhill from there. Yes, Freddie had certainly considered dating Sam before. It wasn't that big of a thing. It was just a passing thought. All guys that had close friends that were girls thought of dating them at some point. But from the way Quinn presented the facts and spun things, it seemed that from the way Freddie and Sam subconsciously acted, they'd both thought about it more than once. And maybe Freddie had, but he wasn't going to act on it and he certainly wasn't going to tell Quinn. She had enough information already.

Quinn ruthlessly informed Freddie of her theories, and Freddie almost had a heart attack in the middle of making a cupcake—they had done muffins that morning and Freddie had dropped them off at the Shay's when he went home to pick up his mom's big mixing bowl—because it had suddenly hit him. Quinn hadn't been there, luckily, she was talking to someone on the phone.

Freddie almost had a midlife crisis or something, because all of Quinn's arguments were dancing a mamba and foxtrot around his head, forcing him to realize Quinn was right. Well, about one thing at least: Freddie was romantically attracted to Sam. And not just in a want-to-kiss her shallow way, because Sam was pretty, as much as Freddie hated to admit it. But Freddie was attracted to Sam in a want-to-hold-her-hand-and-cuddle-and-rub-noses-pet-names kind of way.

And the mental image alone was horrifying enough.

*

Freddie hadn't been in the Groovy Smoothie that long when Carly texted him. He told her where he was and she didn't respond. Freddie knew it wouldn't be long, however, because Sam texted him soon after saying just 'beware'. Freddie claimed an empty table and sipped his Awesome Apple smoothie. The only other people in the smoothie place were a sleepy employee behind the counter and a soccer team with an overly buff, overly loud coach.

Freddie had just began to consider walking over to the Shay's apartment when the door to the Groovy Smoothie slammed open and a blond girl charged in, bellowing at the top of her lungs, "_TROLL_! TROLL IN THE PARKING LOT!"

Her bellowing was enough to startle the ten year olds in the soccer uniforms. Everyone in the store stared at Sam Puckett, who looked around before whispering "thought you ought to know" and collapsing into a chair dramatically, her arm thrown over her face.

Freddie was the first to recover, and he slapped his palm against his face, groaning weakly. He pretended not to know Sam, sipping his smoothie and determinedly looking away. He almost avoided thinking about Quinn's theories.

Sam unfroze and faced the door expectantly as Carly breezed in, panting, and pointed at Sam accusingly. Carly's face was thunderous. "I crashed into a hobo! I had to help him pick up his collection of rubber ducks—_do not ask_!" She roared at Sam, who had opened her mouth to interrupt, and continued on whining angrily, "and then Hot Lifeguard walked by and gave me a dollar because he thought I was a hobo, too." Carly let out a dull moan and limply collapsed into the chair next to Sam, who tried to console her by patting her on the shoulder twice.

Freddie snorted. He had heard far too much about Hot Lifeguard. Luckily, because of his cooking class, he'd missed most of the daily gushing Carly and Sam did about said lifeguard. Freddie always felt like breaking something or punching Hot Lifeguard when Sam got that dreamy look on her face. Then Freddie realized, thinking of his revelation in Quinn's apartment, that the ugly feeling he got when Sam went on and on about Hot Lifeguard might be jealousy.

He quickly chugged half of his smoothie to distract himself from that disturbing thought.

Then Carly and Sam, suddenly remembering their intent, both sprang to attention and stared at Freddie intensely without speaking.

"What?"' Freddie asked Sam and Carly suspiciously, not in the mood for their games.

"Nothing," Carly replied instantly, though her tone and smirk conveyed the opposite.

Carly elbowed Sam, who nodded her head vehemently and agreed, "Nothing, nothing at all."

Exhaling heavily, Freddie wearily shook his head. "Somehow, I don't believe you," he responded sarcastically, wondering why he still put up with these two. They had their redeeming qualities—scratch that, _Carly _had her redeeming qualities—but their quirks and mood swings were confusing, aggravating, and mind scarring. The incident in which Freddie had asked why he needed to go to the grocery store and get Carly chocolate-covered dates had resulted in Sam lecturing him on the female cycle.

Freddie hadn't been able to look any females, even his own mother, in the eye for a week after that lecture.

Reminded of the lecture, Freddie shuddered but soldiered on bravely. "What've you guys been up to today?" he inquired curiously, sipping on his smoothie.

"The question is, what have _you _been up to, Fredward?" Sam asked in that tone.

Freddie merely raised his eyebrows at her and shrugged, sipping at his smoothie.

Carly broke first.

"Oh, come on, Freddie!" she whined, leaning over the table and grabbed his wrist. "Just tell us who answered your phone this morning."

"Yeah," Sam chimed in, frowning. She grabbed Freddie's smoothie and kicked back in her seat. "It sure wasn't your mom."

"Wait, wait," Freddie said, shaking his head. He glared at Sam for stealing his smoothie, but didn't try to get it back. Sam-germs were still icky to him, even if he knew now that he kind of wanted to hold Sam's hand. He repressed a shudder from the mental images, again. This was going to take some getting used to. "You guys called me this morning? I thought that was a prank call. No one answered."

"Well, we were a little surprised when instead of you, some chick answered," Sam barked, sipping at the smoothie. She looked grumpy and somewhat sulky. It was a familiar expression, but Freddie couldn't figure out what it seemed similar to.

"Yeah, Sam threw the phone across the room," Carly said, rolling her eyes. She let go of Freddie's wrist and placed her elbow on the table. She put her chin on her hand and stared at Freddie. "So?"

"So, what?" Freddie stalled, inwardly smirking. Obviously this was really bothering Sam and Carly. Freddie didn't know why. If there was a girl in Freddie's life, Carly and Sam would be the first ones he told. They were his best friends after all. He'd want them to know and approve. If they didn't he'd still date the girl, of course, but he'd like to have their support. _Could Sam approve herself? _Freddie mused idly.

"So, who was the girl?" Sam demanded impatiently, slamming the smoothie down on the table. She was still wearing that expression. Freddie tried again, in vain, to place it.

Carly pouted at him, pulling the puppy dog eyes. "C'mon Freddie," she pleaded. "Just tell us."

"Don't make me inform you of more feminine secrets," Sam threatened, narrowing her eyes dangerously at Freddie. Next to her, Carly muffled. a snicker behind a hand.

"Quinn," Freddie answered quickly, figuring he'd drawn it out enough. "She's just this girl in my cooking class."

"How old?" Carly asked.

"About eighteen, nineteen," Freddie said, leaning back in his chair. He felt strangely relieved. It had felt strange, because for a few minutes he'd kept something from Carly and Sam. That was very weird, because they shared everything with each other. It felt wrong to hide something, even if Freddie had done it unintentionally.

Sam still wore that unreadable expression. "She single?" she inquired casually, not meeting Freddie's eyes, bending the straw of the smoothie cup.

"Naw," Freddie said, exaggerating his tone into something somber and mournful. "She's engaged to some pretty-boy training to be a director. Like his dad or something." Freddie had seen the tasteful but still fancy rock on Quinn's finger almost right away. He'd asked her, and Quinn had told him all about Logan Reese. She shared the apartment with her fiancé, so Freddie had seen pictures too. They were a good-looking couple and Quinn sounded very proud and in love when she talked about Logan. Freddie, personally, was surprised they worked out: the smart, techie girl and the rude, self-absorbed boy. There was something ironic in there too, but Freddie didn't want to think about that too much. "But she's really nice and helping me improve my cooking."

"Oh," was all Sam said, that expression melting away.

"Oh, really?" Carly said, and, for some reason Freddie couldn't fathom, shot Sam a pointed look.

Freddie said slowly, "Yeah." He looked at Sam too.

Sam ignored both of them, staring at the soccer coach, who was downing a protein shake at an alarming speed.

Carly stood up, brushing her hands together. "Well, Sam and I are going to the pool so I can show Hot Lifeguard I am _not _a hobo. Wanna come?"

Sam stood up to, and both she and Carly looked at Freddie. "Sorry, but I'm not much of a Hot Lifeguard-ogler," he said, grinning. "Unless the lifeguard is a female with particularly fine floaties. Then we're talking." Freddie didn't know what possessed him to say that; Sam was probably rubbing off on him too much.

Sam burst out into snickers and Carly rolled her eyes and sighed exasperatedly in a sigh that rang of 'uh, _men_'. Then the two left, shoving each other and exchanging banter, like always, and left Freddie to his thoughts. He had an empty table and an empty smoothie cup. Freddie shook his hand, getting up to throw the smoothie out. Sam was always taking his stuff.

Then Freddie abruptly realized why Sam's expression had been so familiar; it was the same expression he wore whenever Sam mooned over Hot Lifeguard. Freddie slowly connected the dots. That had to mean that Sam had been jealous of the girl who'd answered the phone, of Quinn. And _that _meant that Sam was jealous, because she'd thought there was a girl in Freddie's life, like a girlfriend, she hadn't known about. Freddie felt a little happy shock run through him. So he wasn't alone in this whole romantic attraction thing.

That kind of sucked though, because that meant Freddie and Sam might actually date; even if Freddie did like Sam that way, he wasn't exactly thrilled at the idea of being even more whipped than he already was.


End file.
